


Clutter and broken objects

by hiratake



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Amputation, Blood and Gore, Eye Trauma, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Why Does This Exist, a literary equivalent to a bad death metal album, gore but with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiratake/pseuds/hiratake
Summary: A tale of priorities, and why shifting them always comes at a price.
Relationships: Farwil Indarys/Bremman Senyan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter X

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so a few things. 
> 
> I didn't write it as a multi-chapter story, but rather a series of connected pieces. After some deliberation, I decided to post it in this format, to make it easier to jump between them if somebody wants to play around. Read it chronologically! Read it backwards! Read it however you wish! I'll be honored to have you here anyway.
> 
> The story is set in an AU I am playing around with (I think it's an AU? idk fuck if I know), so there are certain assumptions to the plot, esp. in the post-Oblivion chapters. Also my DnD party recently got a TPK because of a shitty tactic I came up with, so don't get your hopes up with the "action" scenes.

The courier’s demeanor seemed calm, but there was something about him that aroused suspicion. Maybe it was the obvious hurry – the man looked as if he did not slept a wink for five days – or the tone in which he announced a missive for Farwil Indarys, the Count of Cheydinhal. Farwil did not think to correct him at that time, and soon it became apparent there was nothing to correct at all.

It was a brief letter, cruel in its simplicity. Elegant handwriting informed him that Andel Indarys has passed away in Mournhold; he was found dead in his room on the eve of his second wedding. A physician was called to examine the body: the Count’s throat was slit with enough force to split flesh all the way to the spine, but there were no other wounds or signs of struggle. He didn’t suffer for too long.

Below that, a curt acknowledgement of Farwil as the rightful heir to Cheydinhal and heartfelt condolences, with a veiled threat between the lines: your father was an important part of my political network, an indispensable asset securing my position in the Empire, and I still hold enough power to make you regret any notion of swaying from this course.

There was also the issue of the bride, a woman roughly his age, and the treaty that came with her. It had to be honored at all costs. In an uncharacteristic display of kindness, Helseth decided to send her to Cheydinhal instead of forcing Farwil to travel to the capital; she was supposed to arrive together with his father’s remains. There was a solid explanation for this, he realized later: the late Count had no other heirs to spare and there were no other claimants to the title.

By the time he has finished reading, every other person in the chamber has caught on that something was amiss. It was Naspia, not him, who thanked the messenger and sent him away, but not before pressing a satchel into his hand. Forty-five gold pieces, a standard fare for a courier, and a few precious stones as a sign of the Count’s generosity. The guards followed suit, bowing on the way out. Before the door closed, he spied them lining up in front of the entrance. When all the outsiders were gone, Naspia moved to his side, brows furrowed and lips drawn in a narrow line.

“Is everything in order?”

Farwil forced a bile in his throat down, enough to let out a sentence. “My father has been murdered. In Mournhold. Before the wedding.”

Naspia closed her eyes, her features softened. “May he rest in the Nine’s grace.” She reached out, palm up. “My Lord, may I take a look at the message?”

He nodded. Naspia snatched the scroll, eyed the text for what seemed to be an eternity. Farwil watched her expression change: face drawn and lips trembling, the subtle grinding of her teeth, then a long gasp puncturing the silence. People were gossiping about her and the Count, once back when his mother was still alive; was this a reaction one would have to the death of their past lover?

“My Lord, my condolences. Your father was a remarkable man.” Her face was a blank, reliable visage once more. Farwil wished he knew how to do this. “I am sorry to be saying it so soon, but this puts a responsibility on you, one that we must prepare for.”

He nodded, his neck barely supporting the weight of his head. Naspia closed her eyes, let out a long breath.

“If I may be so bold, my Lord – retire for tonight and try to get some rest. We will have to start taking care of the formal aspects as soon as possible, but not right now, when you’re in a state of shock. Before that, I would just ask for your permission to speak about this matter to the Castle staff and your advisors.”

“Advisors?” His tongue felt leaden, flexible enough to form but a single word.

“Sir Senyan and Sir Strongblade. I suppose you would like to see them too; I will send for them in a moment. If you’d excuse me.”

Naspia bowed curtly, turned away. Farwil found enough strength to call out, stop her in her tracks.

“Thank you.” And then, with more conviction. “I don’t know how I would proceed if you weren’t here.”

The corners of Naspia’s mouth turned up, ever so slightly. “This is why I’m here, my Lord.” And after a moment. “Your father, bless his soul, used to say the same.”


	2. Chapter IV

“Is there anyone you like?”

The question hung heavy in the arid night air between them. Farwil could not force himself to look at Bremman, turning his gaze to the skies instead. Masser, waxing, Secunda, full; everything else was exactly the same as always. He never cared to learn how to read the stars, and now he regretted it a little. At least he could break this impossible, unbearable silence that tore at his eardrums and threatened to rip him apart.

Next to him, Bremman’s breaths seemed heavier, faster. He dared to steal a glance at his companion: fingers bent like claws into the fabric of his shirt, trembling knees drawn up to his chin, limp blond hair obscuring his face. Ever since Farwil’s mother died, they started to spend more time together, as if the Imperial tried to keep an eye out for him. He was the complete opposite of Llathasa. Mother was serene and regal; it was hard to even compare her to callous, reserved Bremman. They only seemed similar when a wistful sadness showed in their eyes, softening their features.

His friend didn’t need to fill the role of his mother, none of them did. Farwil was desperate to keep all the Knights of the Thorn at his side as his loyal companions and trusted friends. He wished to achieve glory, bask in it and share with the only people on Nirn who truly loved him. Perhaps he needed Bremman the most; this silent, thoughtful presence at his side that did not judge or push, one he could lean into like an old familiar embrace.

In reality, if Farwil was going to complete his new project, he needed all the extra help he could get. The training arena was almost complete. Today Pyke and Gerard helped him to set up the archery range. Erik was the one to try it out for the first time, after a few drinks, and he almost shot Jhared by accident. As much as it pained him to admit, none of Farwil’s knights excelled at ranged combat, maybe except for Valent.

The Lodge itself has also started to resemble a place to live, not just that desolate space to meet up for a drink. Last week they placed the remaining beds on the first floor; there were more places to sleep than members, but Farwil hoped this would change soon. It filled him with a sense of purpose for the first time since his mother died. There was so much good the Knights of the Thorn could do for the people of Cheydinhal and Cyrodiil at a whole.

This might have been one of the last nights he and Bremman could spend like this, the two of them sitting under the starry sky behind the city walls. He should keep his ruminations to himself, bury them deep and forget, but it was so easy to speak the unspeakable when they were together.

He coughed, breaking the silence. “You don’t need to answer, if you don’t want to. I was just curious.” 

Farwil stood up, brushing off the dust from his trousers. A long, almost pained exhalation drew his attention; Bremman finally looked up. Even in the soft moonlight his face looked red, puffy.

“I’m sorry.” He said, constricted and hoarse; there was this look again, that unidentified longing. “There is, but please, don’t ask me who it is. I cannot tell you.”


	3. Chapter V

It was a hearsay, a rumor to scare disobedient children into following parental orders. If you don’t come home by dinnertime, there will be a great noise and then a door of flames shall appear. Daedra will spill out of it, all scales and lava and pointy teeth, and carry you to the wastes of Oblivion.

That rumor was coming to life in front of his very eyes.

Valent was the first one to spot the sudden discoloration of the sky. It was clear and sunny today, but the Knights have slept in; the memory of yesterday’s alcohol coursed through Farwil’s veins like a numbing poison. As lovely as it was to just recline in bed, nature called. Valent was the first one to answer, leaving the Lodge with a curse as he tripped on his own shoes. Farwil didn’t want to open his eyes yet, at least not until the moment he heard the door slam open.

“You have to see this.” Valent was taking deep, ragged breaths, as if pissing outside was the scariest thing he has ever experienced.

“If you caught any disease, go to the Chapel, I’m not gonna look at your dick.” That was Erik, sounding even more hangover than usual. His comment brought various reactions: Bremman and Jhared snickered, but Farwil could hear Gerard’s deep sigh.

“I’m serious. The sky is all weird- Mathis, you’re next to a window, look out and tell me what you see.”

A moment of silence followed, and then a quiet “Oh fuck, what is happening?”

Farwil suddenly felt very sober. Valent had a talent to turn miniscule problems into hurdles not even the Nine could overcome, but Mathis was calm and stoic, always ready to offer a logical explanation. He didn’t react like this if there was no reason to be concerned.

Ignoring the pain throbbing behind his eyes, Farwil reached under the bed, feeling for his shoes. He glanced downstairs; some of his Knights have already started waking up and moving towards the entrance. Gerard, tying his hair into a ponytail, was standing over Erik’s bed; he tried to push him off with his foot. The Nord grumbled, unwilling to move.

“Don’t wake me up unless we get besieged.”

Farwil ignored him and continued downstairs. Some of the Knights of the Thorn were already at the door. Standing between Bremman and Valent, he looked up, half expecting and half hoping to see nothing extraordinary.

The sky was on fire.

The clouds have vanished, as if vaporized by the red aura creeping over the horizon; the light became sickly and dim. Rivers of lava crisscrossed the sky like a domain of an ancient volcano. He thought of the Red Mountain and shivered. Bremman must have felt that; his hand found Farwil’s shoulder.

“I have no idea what it is, but it doesn’t look good.” He confessed, gazing at the sky with eyes open wide.

“I think I know.” Olivier was standing a few paces behind them. Farwil turned to look at him; the Breton’s face was pale like a sheet of parchment. “My mother was redacting some reports from Kvatch. They said that before the gates of Oblivion opened and started spitting out the Daedra, the sky turned fiery red.”

Jhared, perched at the window upstairs, leaned out to look at Farwil. “Just what we needed, Nine-damned Daedra. Let’s inform the Count and get the militia to work.”

“Stop this, or you’ll fall out and die before the Daedra get you.” That was Gerard. “You really think the Militia can deal with the issue?”

Mathis cleared his throat. Farwil’s cousin has already came back to his wits and was assessing the situation from the stairs. “Weren’t the Kvatch guards massacred at the spot? I doubt ours will be better suited to withstand this, not with the current funding – no offense to your father, Farwil, it is a tough time for us all.”

He took a deep breath. "This is why we will take the gate ourselves, as the Knights of the Thorn, sworn protectors of Cheydinhal.”

Farwil felt light-headed and nauseous; it was dangerous and most likely foolish, but there it was, a solution to all his problems. The gate at Kvatch has been closed by one person, and he had eight of them, all healthy, decently trained and well-equipped. There have been stupider plans that worked without a complication.

His proclamation silenced all conversations, sighs and laughs. He glanced around; Olivier’s mouth was opened wide, his jaw slacking. Valent has taken a step back, leaned against the doorframe. He was looking at Farwil with an expression of a disappointed parent.

That one was familiar, at least.

“You’re joking, right?”

Jhared was now walking down the stairs, staring him in the eye. If he didn’t know his friend better, Farwil would have thought he was issuing a challenge.

“I am serious. We get our gear, storm the gate and return. Eight men should be enough. Oli, do you recall anything about closing this thing?”

The Breton stammered. “I-I think so? The report said that the person who closed the gate retrieved something from it, a keystone of some sort. They told the captain of the Kvatch guards that it came from the highest tower.”

“Then we have our plan of action. I need you to be ready in two hours. Pack rations, water and all the necessary supplies.” It felt good to be giving out those orders like a real commander. _It is real_ , he corrected himself, _I lead the Knights of the Thorn_.

In quick strides, Jhared got to his side. The Imperial was taller than Farwil, and now loomed over his friend, his shoulders raised, fists clenched.

“Are you fucking mad?” He spat. “Have you missed the part about Kvatch guards being decimated? How can we even match a trained force?! Not everyone here has been learning how to fight since they were a child.”

“And some are horrible at it despite putting their hands on an axe before learning to walk.” Mathis wasn’t looking at Erik, but everyone knew who was he talking about. The Nord just grumbled, still groggy and half-asleep; he and the Dunmer never really saw eye to eye.

Farwil stepped forward, until he was standing a hair’s breadth from Jhared.

“It was an order, Jhared, but I’ll let that be. Say what you want to say.”


	4. Chapter I

They were supposed to take a hike to Lake Arrius on the next day, so Farwil wanted to make sure everything was going to be perfect, going over the details over and over again. He didn’t need to – castle servants were within earshot most of the time, eager to help and get in his good graces – but this was something special, an adventure with his friends.

Well, at least some of them. A few had other obligations – Oli was supposed to help his mother in the printing house, Mathis was away for a few days and Erik… well, Erik has been lovestruck again, and rebuked immediately afterwards. Farwil tried to reason with him, but to no avail.

“You don’t understand.” The Nord was picking at his beard, wistfully staring into space. Farwil was slightly jealous; only him, Pyke and Gerard have managed to grow respectable facial hair, and Erik’s beard was the fullest. Farwil’s own attempts were laughable. “I’ve never felt anything like this before. There was this bond I felt when I first gazed upon Shadura’s strong yet charming frame…”

“You were saying the same two months ago, Erik.” Farwil cleared his throat. “I think a little exercise could cheer you up.”

Erik just shook his head. “I’m sorry, friend. This was just too much for my heart, and now I need to bear this burden alone. In the darkness.”

Farwil didn’t want to remind him it was early in the afternoon.

This left just a few people, but at least their enthusiasm was admirable. Gerard promised to prepare some packed meals for the group – being friends with a baker’s apprentice was a great boon – and Jhared said he would try to smuggle a few bottles of wine from his father’s shop. Worst case scenario, Farwil could always take a few of his friends and raid the castle cellars. He knew where the Count was keeping his best vintage.

They have prepared a few things in advance. Not wanting to draw unnecessary attention, Farwil and the others were stashing supplies in a dilapidated house just outside Cheydinhal walls. It was a perfect hiding spot – close enough to the city to dissuade most bandits and wild animals, but away from the main roads and pleasantly secluded. At first Farwil wanted to use the abandoned house next to the Chapel of Arkay, but when he was talking the issue through with Bremman, his father overheard them.

He has never seen the Count fly into rage this quick; Andel Indarys, livid with fury, was screaming at the top of his lungs, showering his son with a variety of curses and threats. He was never supposed to even come close to this place, not if he values his life and inheritance. Summoning all his willpower, Farwil asked about the house, but this provoked another round. Then Bremman suggested checking out the ruins outside of the city, and the rest was simple.

There were people who thought Farwil’s friends were only tolerating his presence because he was the heir to Cheydinhal – was there a better way to secure your future than befriending the ones in power? He tried to purge this thought from his mind. There were a few times when he used his high standing as a leverage, but never for something truly important. Besides, there were things you couldn’t fake, like Oli’s excitement when he was talking about a new book he was preparing for printing or the proud look on Valent’s face after completing a herbarium. Farwil wasn’t interested in botanics, but if it made his friend happy, it brought him joy as well.

He went through the list once more. The trip to Lake Arrius had to be perfect, so impressive that his friends would spread the news about Farwil’s planning prowess all over Cheydinhal, right to the ears of his father. There it was, this rush of excitement and happiness. Nothing could ruin his mood now, not a single thing.

Except for the bent and twisted body of his mother at the bottom of the castle’s main staircase.


	5. Chapter VI

It was a mistake.

Jhared didn’t want to relent. They were as under-equipped as the militia, and even worse trained, he argued. This seemed to convince Valent, who started calling the idea an obvious suicide.

“We should just bar the door, hide in the cellar and wait for someone who knows what they are doing.”

“That’s a great plan, Valent.” Olivier’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “You think the Daedra will not sniff us out and slaughter when we’re drunk, exhausted and unarmed? At this point it’s better to face them head-on. At least we’ve had some sleep.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Erik, hangover is your natural state, you’ll be fine.” The reply came from Farwil’s left; it was Bremman.

“Says Sir Weightless, who drinks three cups of wine and falls unconscious.”

“It’s not about rest or equipment.” Jhared cut in, his eyes not leaving Farwil. “It’s about you, and how you’re trying to use your status to convince us to do something stupid.”

As much as he wanted to step back, doing so would be akin to admitting defeat. The Dunmer did not break the eye contact, just looked at his friend with barely concealed fury.

“Then let us cast votes. All of you, speak your minds freely. I’ll even abstain from discussion to not sway any of you.”

Jhared moved away from Farwil; a small victory. He looked around, trying to meet the eyes of every other Knight in the room. “I am against this madness. We should inform the Militia, or at least ask for some reinforcements before venturing in.”

Mathis was next. “I think this is a bad idea as well. Remember what happened to Pyke?”

Farwil’s face twisted in a grimace on its own. Pyke just… vanished from the face of the Nirn one evening, a few months ago. They were in the Lodge, drinking and gossiping. Oli, the best informed of them all, was talking about a strange rumor he overheard in his mother’s shop. Some door has opened in the middle of Niben Bay, just appeared out of nowhere, surrounded by strange flora and whatnot. This was enough for Valent to start drafting an expedition, but then Bremman slurred out some stupid joke which led to a full-on quarrel. Farwil clearly remembered one fact: among shouting, Pyke rose from his spot, swaying from all the alcohol he imbibed. When the other Knights looked at him, the Redguard cleared his throat.

“Don’t listen to Bremman, he’s an asshole.” The Imperial opened his mouth to protest, but Pyke continued, his gaze unfocused and soft. “I’ll get you some samples, Valent, just wait a second, because I need to take a piss.”

He turned around and walked out of the Lodge. This was the last time they’ve seen of him.

But this was not the time to think about Pyke, not when Erik was already making a few practice swings with his axe.

“You guys are all cowards. Let’s get some drinks and storm this shit right now!”

“I think we can at least test the waters.” That was Gerard, careful as always. “See if we can manage for ourselves, and worst case scenario trace our steps back.”

Valent stepped forward. “There’s strength in numbers; if we want to attack, we should gather a bigger force.”

“It goes for them too; if we strike as soon as possible, the Daedra will not be prepared for a coordinated assault.”

“By the Nine, Bremman, we’re speaking about man-eating horrors here, they don’t need to be organized…”

“And right now, as we’re arguing, they’re forming an assault as well.”

Farwil raised his voice as loud as he could. “This is why we should cast votes. Everyone, your final decision.”

“We stay.” Jhared was looking straight at him, issuing a challenge. Valent echoed his statement almost immediately.

“We go and kick their asses!”

“I’m with Erik here.” Oli’s voice almost didn’t tremble.

Mathis sighed. “And I’m against on that very principle.”

“I think we can manage.” Gerard didn’t need to say anything, as he was already rummaging through some of their food supplies.

There was only one vote left, Bremman’s. Farwil glanced to his side; to his surprise, the Imperial was staring at him, his expression strangely calm.

“I’m in.” And then, a smile. “You should have more faith in the Knights of the Thorn.”

It was a mistake, but in that moment it just felt right.


	6. Chapter XI

Farwil was awake from sunrise to late night, but his responsibilities seemed to pile up anyway. Days blended into one another, restless and chaotic, yesterday’s solutions turning into today’s complications. Each task felt like a serving of sleeping draught, numbing down the overwhelming feeling that Andel Indarys was dead. Farwil was not meant to hold his hand as he passed, nor risk his own life in an attempt to save father’s. No, he only got a piece of paper, dry royal condolences with layers of meaning he didn’t know how to navigate.

Most of the formalities weren’t finished yet. They started with the worst of them – a formal address to the citizens of Cheydinhal, preparing a place for the Count’s final rest, responding to letters from other nobles of Cyrodiil, all studied words of sympathy. Naspia wrote a long explanation to the capital too. Farwil received a reply just the other week; Ocato was summoning him to the Imperial City. They arrived yesterday, late in the night, weary from the road; the audience was scheduled for this afternoon.

“At least nobody slit my throat when I was sleeping.” He said to the vaulted ceiling.

The Palace was prepared for hosting Countesses and Counts at all times, luxurious chambers waiting for the most distinguished guests. The rest of Farwil’s retinue was not in luck; they were placed in an emptied guards’ bedroom. Not that there were many of them: Bremman and Jhared as his bodyguards, Ra’qanar as a valet and the priest Esbern as a diplomatic aid. Farwil desperately wished to have Naspia around, but she assured him the old Nord was a fitting replacement.

Someone had to make sure the city was still up and running.

He made his way to where his clothes were already laid out. There it was, a quilted doublet with the insignia of Cheydinhal, commissioned by Andel Indarys many years ago. It was a beautiful piece, dark green with rivulets of gold thread mimicking the intricate knots on the coat of arms, cut emeralds in place of buttons. Father was shorter, of a sturdier build, so the tailor had to make some hasty corrections for the occasion. Farwil brushed his fingers along the hem. It was stitched with a darker thread than the rest of the outfit, hard to notice if you didn’t know where to look.

He picked up the undershirt first, fumbling with the knotted string. Both Ra’qanar and Bremman offered to help him prepare, but he declined. Farwil didn’t want to be seen right now neither by the valet nor by his friend, not in this unfamiliar outfit he was supposed to wear in front of the Potentate and other Imperial Chancellors. The green brocade was heavy, well padded, but it felt thin and fragile like a sheet of satin. Why couldn’t he be wearing his plate armor instead? Only the Palace Guards were permitted to carry weapons in the Council chambers, so he was forced to leave the Thornblade here as well, hidden under the mattress of the bed.

Supposedly the security in the Palace was not as tight as it used to be.

Bremman was already waiting outside, dressed in a black vest, the medallion proudly displayed around his neck. Farwil glanced down. His friend was wearing gloves. Bremman must have noticed, because he lifted the right hand and flexed the remaining fingers.

“It doesn’t draw too much attention unless I start moving it too much.”

Farwil shrugged. “If it makes you feel better.” He didn’t like it when Bremman concealed his hand, as if ashamed of the scars. It was a mark of his bravery, however disgusting it might have looked to an outside eye. But they were meeting the Potentate of the Empire – the current Emperor – who didn’t need to be reminded of what happened years before by small details. “Where are Jhared and the others?”

“Already in the Council Chambers. We need to do one more thing before we join them. Potentate Ocato wants to see us.”

Thoughts swam in Farwil’s head. “Us?”

“The Count and the other man who was in the Deadlands. I thought we were the only ones to match this description.” He gestured to the exit of the corridor; a woman in an ornate armor of the Palace Guard was waiting there. “He sent a guard to escort us to his private study.”

“Could you tell us why does the Potentate want to see us right now?” Farwil asked the guard as they were climbing a staircase to the top of the Palace. “The meeting is about to start.”

She looked him, shaking her head. “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Indarys, I don’t know. It shouldn’t take too long.”

It was a strange and terrifying place, the White-Gold Tower. Tall walls and ceilings were devoid of windows, muddling the day and night. The light was sparse, morose. Even Farwil, who spent his childhood in the shadows of Cheydinhal Castle’s battlements, felt a chill ripple down his spine. He glanced at Bremman; the Imperial was looking around, picking at the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Never thought I’d have the honor to be here, in the very heart of the Empire.” He confessed in a hushed tone.

The guardswoman finally stopped in front of a heavy doorway. She knocked on the carved door, and upon hearing a confirmation, cracked it open.

“Lord Indarys, sir. Please come inside.”

The room was more ascetic than the chamber prepared for Farwil. A large desk occupied its central portion, papers, books and utensils strewn all over it. A chandelier hung above it, rather low, as if to provide as much light as possible; there were no windows here as well. Another desk was positioned to the left, smaller and tidier, with numerous cluttered shelves propped at the walls.

“Count Indarys, I apologize for the sudden change in plans. Please, have a seat.”

It was said that Altmer never looked worn or tired, but Farwil had to disagree. Recent troubles made Potentate Ocato into an old man, with wrinkles pulling at the sallow skin around the eyes and mouth and limp, dull hair. Dressed in a plain red robe, fingers speckled with tiny stains of ink, he did not look like the most powerful man in the entire Cyrodiil.

Somehow he commanded pure authority anyway.

Farwil sat down, feeling like he was eight again, summoned by his father to answer for some mischief. There was only one seat in front of Ocato’s desk, so Bremman stood behind his back. The Potentate waved his hand; another guard appeared out of nowhere, carrying a chair. The Imperial sat down, gripping the armrests. Prosthetic fingers stuck out at an awkward angle.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Potentate.” Farwil gulped down the bile forming in his throat. “Thank you for the warm welcome in the Imperial City.”

Ocato leaned back in his chair. “The pleasure is all mine, Count Indarys, Lord… excuse me, I didn’t catch your name, sir.”

“Bremman Senyan.” The Imperial sounded even worse than he did. “It’s an honor.”

“Likewise.” Ocato nodded. “I hope your night was peaceful. Once again I apologize for calling you here on such short notice, but I wanted to talk to you before we proceed with the meeting.”

“Of course, Potentate.” Farwil managed to look the Altmer in the eye and not flinch. “If it is about the recommendation from King Helseth, one of my companions has it; we will present it during the ceremony.”

Everybody in the room knew it wasn’t about any paperwork or formal issues. “No, Count Indarys, I’m sure the papers are in order. I wanted to ask you about Oblivion.”


	7. Chapter VII

He did not see who fell first, Mathis or Oli.

They didn’t face much resistance at the stone arch that appeared in front of the Lodge. Small, screeching creatures were patrolling the premises; he and Gerard engaged one of them, but it was Valent who managed to put an arrow between its eyes. On the other side of the portal, Erik and Bremman were doing much better. Working in tandem, they smashed the skulls of two enemies to pulp.

“Look, the swordsmen have barely managed to take down one of them.” Erik remarked, brandishing his axe. Bremman clapped him on the back and laughed. He was hopeless with a blade, so Erik offered to teach him Nord ways of fighting. In the end, the Imperial started training with blunt weapons.

“Just don’t cry when your axe gets stuck in some corpse and us, the heroic swordsmen, come to save you.” Oli shouted back. He was crouching over one of the corpses, poking at it with mild curiosity.

Farwil cleared his throat. “If you’re done arguing, let’s move out.” He looked around, lingering over each and every Knight. He made sure to look at Jhared last. “Just like we discussed before – if we don’t come back in a day, inform the Militia. And my father.”

The Imperial nodded, his shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. After the votes were cast, Jhared started preparing his equipment like every other Knight of the Thorn: gathering the armor pieces, stuffing the satchels with food and whatever potions they had around. Farwil stood next to him and delivered the mission orders, or maybe a punishment – he was to stay behind and watch their backs. Every military tactic in history of Nirn made use of a rear guard.

“Then, Knights, we march forward. An otherworldly evil is threatening our city, and we are the only force that can stop the waves of enemies that threaten to crash upon the shores of our world.” He repeated ‘threaten’, but the rest was acceptable. “We are the shield that protects our families and neighbors, the weapon that lays waste to whoever dares to harm them. Take up your arms, Knights, and fight for Cheydinhal! Huzzah!”

Weapons raised among shouts of joy, Farwil entered through the portal, his contingent in tow, and fell mute after crossing.

“What the fuck?”

Mathis summed up what all of them were thinking. Oblivion was not a place for the living. Scorched ground, swelling with coils of lava trapped underneath it, was barren, save for dry, calloused vines and red grass growing in sparse patches. Farwil looked around and saw distant towers, as tall as the Castle, but torn into impossible shapes, twisting their spines into the darkness above. There was no sun or stars here, only rivers and columns of fire, drawing out shadows that moved like stalking beasts.

The heat was the worst of them all. In a span of minutes it drew all moisture from the skin, nose and throat. The steel plate, though functional, was impractical in this heat. Farwil was worried about Erik; the Nord was already sweating heavily. When he noticed the attention, he just winked.

“Nothing I haven’t experienced in bed.”

“Your jokes will kill us sooner than the heat.” Mathis grumbled, but looked around. “Oli said we should be looking for the tallest tower. Which one looks like the tallest?”

“I don’t think we can reach them, unless you and Farwil volunteer to swim through the lava.” That was Oli. Mathis smacked him on the shoulder. “What? You have the best heat tolerance of us all.”

“You’re making so much noise that the whole Oblivion knows we’re here already.” Valent’s back was turned to the rest of the Knights; he was looking at one of the knotted vines. As he reached out for the plant, it came alive, lashing across his face. With a notably quiet yelp, Valent fell backwards, landing on his butt.

“This could have been avoided if someone didn’t consider helmets un-heroic.” He remarked as Gerard and Bremman were helping him up. The vine hit with enough force to cut through the skin on his nose and right cheek, but not too deep; a bruise was already starting to form. Farwil ignored the comment and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Is everything in order?”

Valent shrugged. “I think so. We should move, just… quietly.”

They continued down a long, winding path. Descending the steep stone walls, as tall as a grown man, proved to be a challenge, but Knights of the Thorn were no ordinary warriors and overcame this hardship with an admirable skill. As their commander, Farwil had to give a good example, so he ignored the pain lancing through his ankle after a bad stumble and led them further into the wastes, straight into a trap.

This time the Daedra were bigger, more menacing, faster. They had sharp claws and beaks, so Farwil had to keep cover behind his shield. Openings were rare; when the flurry slowed down, he lashed out with the sword. The blade skidded, slicing off one of the creature’s claws. The Daedra shrieked and attacked with renewed vigor, knocking Farwil backwards, and the sword from his grip. Hiding behind his shield, he blindly tried to reach for it; his arm was losing strength with every blow. He dared to look at his enemy, screeching and thrashing. Then, a flash of silver – a claymore split its side! It was Mathis, hair strewn in the heated wind. He looked down at Farwil, smiling, and opened his mouth as if to berate his childish and spoiled cousin…

Another Daedra lunged at him. Its beak closed around Mathis’ face with a horrifying crunch, but it did not lessen the creature’s rage. The leathery head snapped back, leaving a trail of gore as sharp claws dug into the Dunmer’s neck, tearing flesh and fabric. As if in a dream, Farwil reached for his sword and stood behind the monster. His first slash severed something in the Daedra’s neck; its head lolled to the side, and after a few more blows it stopped moving.

He knelt by his cousin’s body, trying to avoid looking at his face. Just a few moments ago Mathis was there, fighting at his side, and now…

“Mathis, fuck, not you too.”

Bremman was standing over him, his armor splattered with blood, one shoulder pad visibly dented. He clasped his arms around Farwil, pulling him up.

“I’m so sorry, Farwil, this is so messed up. What are we going to do with the bodies?”

He stiffened. By the Nine, not more of this. “Bodies?”

The Imperial sighed, ran his fingers through matted blond hair. “Oli, he… well, one of those creatures, a humanoid one, managed to tear off his shield and then found an opening in the armor and… fuck, just see for yourself.”

Dazed, Farwil made his way to the outcropping where the other Knights were gathered. Oli’s body was sprawled on the blood-soaked stone, his head in Gerard’s lap. The Breton was trying to close his friend’s eyes, somehow lessen the expression of terror that has seeped into the lines on his face. Farwil glanced at the fallen Knight. Bremman forgot to mention that the shield was torn off together with Oli’s arm, but even worse was the long trail of guts spilling from below the plate armor, a jagged line of red and pink and beige cutting through the dark slab of rock.

He took a long breath. “We leave them here, but take their medallions and wineskins. And then we close the gate to honor their sacrifice.”


	8. Chapter II

Incidentally, Mathis was the first one to tell him.

“I understand you must be grieving, but I will not be getting drunk with you on Sundas afternoon.” He paused, looking at Farwil with his usual expression of a concerned relative. “The issue is, why do you want to miss your mother’s funeral?”

And just like this, all the pieces fell into place. This was why the servants in the castle were avoiding him, why the guards refused to let him outside. Count’s orders, they said, issued to protect you, Lord Indarys. People are talking, on the streets and in the inns, and you know how the commoners are. So Farwil stayed inside, wondering why none of his friends came to visit, stalking through the corridors by himself.

Mathis, who had just returned from Mournhold, was a special case. His father was a relative of Llathasa Indarys, so of course he knew about her passing, and nobody would dare to stop him from entering the Castle. The Dunmer was still wearing his travelling garb, red hair pulled into a messy braid.

“I’m truly sorry this happened to you, Farwil, but I think you should be present. Trust me, a few years from now you will regret not attending, not saying the last goodbye to aunt Llathasa.”

“I didn’t know.” He blinked back the tears. “Nobody told me.”

His cousin’s eyes opened wide. “What?”

“I didn’t know about the funeral.” Farwil felt his nails digging into his palms. “I haven’t even set foot outside for the last few days. The guards are keeping me in. I haven’t seen anyone who isn’t a servant, and even they don’t want to talk to me.”

“I’m sure this was a misunderstanding.” Mathis found an interesting spot on the wall, avoiding eye contact.

Anger flared through Farwil’s body. “No, this was my father’s idea.” And before he could control his legs, they started running towards the Count’s private study. Tears obscured his vision, but he could find his way around the Castle even with closed eyes.

Ignoring the Militia member guarding the entrance, he slammed the door open.

“When were you going to tell me?!”

Andel Indarys was seated at the desk, his form hugged by the plush upholstery of his chair. He was wearing fashionable mourning colors, cut to suite his frame, and smiled when he saw Farwil.

“Ah, my favorite son decided to visit his father.”

“Just answer the question.” He spat out, crossing the room in strides. “Why haven’t you told me about mother’s funeral?”

The Count leaned forward, rubbing his temples. “Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Farwil’s ears were ringing from his own voice, but he pressed further. “Please, father. Were you going to tell me at all?”

A moment’s hesitation, then a sigh. “Yes, a few hours before the ceremony, to give you enough time to prepare yourself.”

He didn’t expect this answer. It would have been easier if Andel Indarys just told him no, so Farwil could scream and throw accusations, but now all his anger has dissipated. He leaned on the desk, defeated.

“Then why the secrecy? Why are you not letting me out of the Castle?”

Father rose from the chair. He stood in front of Farwil, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“When noblemen die, the small folk gossips. I am sure you were aware that me and Llathasa… didn’t always see eye to eye. I loved her dearly, but people of Cheydinhal have seen only a small piece of our lives, and might have drawn other conclusions.” The Count ruffled Farwil’s hair as if he was a child again; he wanted to protest, but also needed this touch more than ever. “It wasn’t easy, believe me, but I wanted to protect you from harmful rumors. You don’t need to bear a heavier burden right now.”

“And you couldn’t just tell me?” The words came out flat, resigned. Father chuckled.

“You would never agree to stay in the Castle. One moment and you’d be out on the streets, running around with those friends of yours.” Andel Indarys pulled him into an embrace. “Oh, my child, you’ve grown up so fast. I am so proud of you, of how strong and brave you became.”

Farwil managed to stop himself from crying then, merely hugging his father in return.

Years later, he often thought about this moment, not without a sense of dread. If the Count had nothing to do with his mother’s death, when did he have time to prepare such a perfectly fitting mourning attire?


	9. Chapter XII

Farwil had often wondered what his final words should be. Definitely something about Cheydinhal and how much he loved the city and its citizens. It would be proper to add some personal touches too, maybe about the Knights of the Thorn and how honored he was to be their commander. He shouldn’t be playing favorites in the last moments, but it was tempting to add a few words for Bremman, perhaps a final confirmation, or a promise.

When he woke up in the dead of the night, a blade pressed against his throat, he forgot all of it.

“Don’t raise your voice.” A whisper came from his right, just next to his ear. “I’m not here to hurt you, just talk. Do you understand?”

The voice was unfamiliar, perfectly neutral. Farwil couldn’t pinpoint anything about the speaker. He nodded; the blade retracted from his neck, but not fully, still gleaming in the corner of his vision.

“Good. I apologize for the sudden entry, but that is the only way to have your ear without exposing ourselves. I suppose you have many questions.”

He did. “Who are you? How did you get here?” And the most important of them all. “Aren’t you going to kill me?”

The figure stepped away. In the dim light it was hard to see their features; they were robed in all black, covered from head to toe. There was something peculiar about the night visitor, too. It seemed the lines of their body were shifting, as if alive. A shiver crept down Farwil’s spine; this wasn’t good news.

“You’ve probably figured it out by now, but I am a Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood. I snuck in earlier in the day, when the hallway was empty, and hid behind a tapestry.” The figure paused. “You may want to reschedule guard duties, at dinnertime an entire army could march in here unnoticed.”

It was ridiculous. That strange creature has just barged in here, unprovoked, pressed a knife to his throat and now was calmly discussing the matters of security in the Castle. “But why are you here? To finish what you’ve started?”

They shrugged. “I shouldn’t be telling you trade secrets, but consider it a gift of good will. If you’re talking about your father, this wasn’t our doing, and trust me, I would have known.” The figure sheathed their knife. “I’m here to congratulate the newly appointed Count of Cheydinhal and remind him of an agreement we had with his late father, and all the other Counts before.”

“You’re lying.” He spat out. “My father wouldn’t agree to collaborate with assassins.”

“Oh, he was not collaborating with us in any way. You see, the subject of our agreement was a specific estate in Cheydinhal.”

Farwil’s pulse quickened. “The house in the Chapel District.”

“Indeed.” The ambiguous voice sounded almost pleased. “Your father made sure that no new buildings were placed on the property, while we made sure to conduct our business quietly and without drawing too much attention. We want to extend the lease.”

“Over my dead body.” He spat out. “I’m not hosting murderers in my city.”

“Don’t be too hasty in your judgement, my Lord. There are certain benefits for both you and Cheydinhal. The Count is under our special protection – unless the Night Mother herself wills it, we will not accept any contract for your life. That protection can extend to your family and friends.” The tone seemed sharper now, as if hiding a blade. “I’m sure you would be interested in keeping your Imperial knights safe.”

Farwil stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare…”

“I am not saying that members of the Dark Brotherhood are hidden in their rooms, observing Bremman Senyan and Jhared Strongblade as they sleep. I am also not saying they are waiting for a sign, ready to strike as soon as I give them my permission.” The figure was leaning over Farwil with uncomfortable closeness. “And I’m definitely not saying they are there to send a message. Losing a few more fingers could be rather distressing for Sir Senyan, but if he’s under our protection…”

“If you ever hurt Bremman or Jhared, I will personally burn your hideout and slaughter everyone inside.” He was breathless from fear, so the threat was no more than a whisper. “Get out of here.”

“Oh, there are other boons we can offer. First of all, we pay taxes – not officially, mind you, but enough to cover for several major expenses. I am pleased to report that the water supply renovation two years ago was funded thanks to our generous donation.”

He felt his teeth grate. Citizens were elated; the old system needed repairs for years. Naspia has mentioned that sometimes money seemed to appear out of thin air and his father had always been secretive about this issue. There were other projects Cheydinhal didn’t have funds for – a new pavement in front of the Chapel, additional housing, renovations in the Guild buildings, the expansion of the printing house. The last one wasn’t a priority, but Farwil wanted to complete it in Oli’s memory.

The city was alive, thriving, so how could he deny it nourishment?

Taking a deep breath, he replied. “I agree to your terms, as long as you don’t cause any direct harm to the people of Cheydinhal. If you do, I will hunt you down and kill each and every one of you. Now leave me and my friends alone.”

The figure stepped back. “I knew we were going to reach an agreement, my Lord.” They bowed curtly. “Once again I am truly sorry for interrupting your rest; I will not intrude any longer. Pleasure doing business with you.”

And then they vanished into thin air, as if they were never here in the first place. Farwil jumped up, feeling behind every tapestry and furniture in the room; there was nothing. He even started thinking that it was an elaborate nightmare, but a few days later a bag of gold appeared in his chamber. Underneath it was a short message: “ _For the expansion of Rienne Printing House”_.


	10. Chapter VIII

The caves were stuffy and winding. Farwil tried to lead the way, but the pain in his ankle was getting worse and worse, so when Gerard suggested to scout the next cavern, he gratefully accepted. Bremman and Erik followed him at a distance, leaving Farwil together with Valent. The botanist’s face has swollen so much that he couldn’t see out of one eye. In his state the bow was useless, so he abandoned it, taking one of the serrated swords used by Daedra instead.

The Imperial rummaged through his pack. They were slowly running out of water, but Valent prepared some potions; nothing too miraculous, yet enough to bring relief after smaller injuries. He stubbornly didn’t want to use it on himself.

“I can still fight, as long as one of you covers my right.” Valent’s voice sounded nasal; maybe the vine has damaged a bone. He pulled out a small, luminescent bottle. “You, however, could use a potion.”

“I’m not injured.” He protested; the Imperial snorted.

“I didn’t need both eyes to notice you limping. That’s very noble of you not to show your distress, but you’re going to slow us down. Drink this, it will help a bit.”

Farwil winced, but reached for the bottle. The potion tasted like mushrooms; there was also something different in the draught, something hard to pinpoint at the very beginning. Farwil licked his lips and then realized.

“Raw meat, seriously?” He spat, tossing the empty bottle into the lava. Valent huffed.

“It’s not supposed to be tasty, but effective. Now, see if it feels better.”

Farwil moved his ankle. Though still swollen, it seemed less painful. “It does.” He looked up. “Thank you, Valent, but you should drink one as well. Commander’s orders.”

“Listen, it’s not like I have an entire shop with me…”

Sounds of skirmish broke their conversation; they came from further down in the caves. Farwil jumped to his feet, sword in hand, and ran towards the sound. He squeezed through a narrow opening in the cavern and froze in place.

There was a body there, limp and headless. Erik was standing between it and a giant, hulking Daedra with a long maw full of sharp, bloodied teeth. He was hacking at the monster, screaming threats and curses. Farwil looked around; he couldn’t see neither Bremman nor Gerard, which meant that this mutilated thing was one of them, another one of his friends massacred by those abhorrent things.

Valent pushed past him, running towards Erik; he flanked the monster, sticking the serrated sword in its side. Farwil shook off the dread and circled the Daedra from the other side. One dark eye followed him, but before the monster had a chance to bite down, Erik swung up with all of his strength, severing a part of its maw. The creature writhed in pain; Farwil used this opening to drive his sword up, through the soft part of its jaw, until it hit the other side of the skull. With one last convulsion, the Daedra fell.

“What the fuck was that?” Erik was panting. He crouched next to the body and patted it on the back before tearing off the medallion and tossing it to Farwil. The inscription confirmed that it was Gerard.

“Where’s Bremman?” Farwil asked, his throat parched and constricted.

“Shit.” Erik stopped in his tracks. “There was one more creature here, he might have chased it further into the…”

A horrid, distorted scream tore through the air. At first Farwil thought that it was a Daedra, but then it started sounding more and more like a human crying from pain so unbearable there were no words to describe it. Another second passed; he realized there was only one person that could be screaming like that and his heart sank. All weariness gone, he sprinted in the direction of the noise.

Bremman was on the ground, and above him, a column of living fire. It was humanoid and had a visible darker core, but the skin, face and hair were all shaped out of dancing flames. One of its hands pointed at the fallen Knight, but now the creature’s head was bowed in Farwil’s direction, as if it was irritated by the interruption.

He charged, brandishing his shield; behind, he heard Erik’s battlecry. The impact knocked the Daedra back; his shield heated up in a blink of an eye. Farwil’s first instinct screamed to toss it aside, but no, the creature still had sharp claws; it would be stupid to discard his first line of defense. Erik charged at it from the side, caught one fiery arm with his axe. It went flying across the cavern, still smoldering.

“Nice, so you can be decapitated like every other asshole here.”

Farwil dared to sneak a glance at Bremman; the Knight was still alive. Valent pulled him away from the monster before joining the fight, but so far the Imperial did not stand up. He was leaning against the wall of the cave, eyes closed and face drawn in.

Losing an arm didn’t stop the Daedra. It realized that Farwil was not swayed by fire, turning its full attention to Valent. A flaming tongue hit the Imperial’s shoulder, skidding off without leaving any mark. It confused the creature for a moment, long enough to allow Erik a clean strike at its neck. With one last fiery scream, it burned out.

“The sky was on fire. I figured there might be more of it where that came from.” Valent explained, noticing Farwil’s questioning stare and tossing aside an empty vial.

“Could have shared it beforehand.” Another voice joined in. Bremman has managed to get up, but there was something worrying in a way he was standing, right shoulder drawn in and arm hanging limp.

Farwil stepped closer, touching Bremman’s good shoulder. “What happened?”

The Imperial closed his eyes. “When I saw what that… abomination did to Gerard I couldn’t think straight, so I charged at whatever was moving. That thing lured me here and allowed to be hit. The moment it got in contact with my mace, it caught my arm and started spitting out flames from its claws.”

Farwil could see it now. There were two monstrous handprints burned into Bremman’s glove, one on his hand and one on the forearm; the Daedra’s flames were hot enough to heat up the steel plate. The outer edge of Bremman’s hand was damaged the worst; several fingers were just melted together. He felt a pang of fear; has the same happened to his flesh?

“Can you feel your hand?” Valent was already at their side, holding another bottle.

“Aside from pain, not really. What was in this potion? It tasted horrible.”

“Dung and fingernail clippings.” He quipped back, examining Bremman’s burned arm. “Just let it work; I’ll give you another one in a few hours. Can you walk?”

Bremman nodded. “I hope it won’t slow us down.”

It did, together with Valent’s swollen face and Farwil’s injured leg. Erik did most of the fighting, finding strength to raise his axe despite the overbearing heat and numerous small wounds littering his body, and Farwil was proud of him, so proud. The caves seemed unending, but just as he was losing hope, an entrance appeared on the horizon, and with it the tower.

This was the place Oli was talking about, must have been, for no other point could be the cornerstone of this hellish realm. The tower rose from the endless sea of lava, positioned at the end of a wide bridge. It seemed impossibly tall, a uniform column of black stone with four jagged limbs cutting through the flame-stricken sky, like a twisted version of the green and lush oak of Chorrol. There was a yellow light emanating from the top, undoubtedly their goal.

“We made it.” He whispered to nobody in particular, gazing upon the lonely derelict.

Erik pointed to the bridge. “There are some creatures down there, but we should be able to deal with them. Let’s go.”

They weren’t.


	11. Chapter III

The next few hours were a blur in his mind, everything grinding together into a fine dust of memories.

His mother never followed the teachings of the Nine, so Farwil found it rather distasteful to conduct a ceremony in the Chapel, all hymns and prayers and empty condolences. He was seated in the front row, right next to his father. The row behind was reserved for Llathasa’s relatives, but Mathis managed to convince his family to sit elsewhere. As a result, his friends were seated right behind Farwil. He could hear a few sniffs (definitely Valent and Oli), the rumble of Gerard’s deep voice calming them down and the methodical way Pyke was reciting the prayers.

Then the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed. More people were touching him now, offering handshakes, kisses and words of consolation. The sounds were reaching him from far away, muted and flat. Finally someone pulled him away from the crowd and its invasive hands and lips. Farwil blinked, trying to reorient himself. His friends were there, surrounding him at a short distance.

“Do you want to go home?” Pyke was standing in front of him, arms crossed.

Farwil said that he didn’t, so they went to the dilapidated house outside of the city, procuring as much wine as they could on the way. Their hideout was partially destroyed, but still had a few mismatched pieces of furniture they could use. The afternoon soon turned into evening; Farwil barely registered that. He drank one cup after another, hoping that one of them will fill that horrible hole in his chest, but to no avail. Then he saw Mathis leaning over and felt a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s getting late, Farwil, we should get going. I’ll bring you home.”

“No!” He shrieked, pulling back. “I’m not going back there. Just leave me be.”

His cousin crouched next to him, patting Farwil’s hand. “You can’t stay here. There is no place to sleep, and if you fall asleep on the floor, you’ll wake up freezing. Come, I’ll help you up.”

He snatched his hand from Mathis’ grasp and took a few steps back, stumbling over an empty bottle.

“I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to be anywhere near father or the Chapel…” The voice hitched in his throat, threatening to break into dry heaving. His cousin tried again, but Farwil batted away his hands. For a long moment everyone was silent.

Then, a solution. “There are a few furs left in the basement. I can stay and keep an eye on him, if you need to go home.”

The atmosphere relaxed in a second. “Could you? I really need to get back home and be ready in the morning.”

“I was supposed to go to Harlun’s Watch tomorrow, but I’m not sure I will be able to walk.”

“I need to get changed.” Pyke murmured, then paused. “It wasn’t your fault, Farwil, don’t feel bad about it.”

Before Farwil could ask what exactly was he supposed to feel bad about, his friends were already leaving, saying one last goodnight before closing the door. After a moment it was just him and one other person. He tried to focus; it was Bremman. The Imperial sat in front of him, a piece of cloth and a cup of wine in hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to clean you up. I don’t have better supplies at hand, sorry.” He brushed the wet cloth over Farwil’s mouth; it tasted like cheap wine. Somehow this had a sobering effect.

“Why are you doing that, exactly?”

Bremman sighed. “You had too much to drink. Not that anyone would hold it against you, but I don’t want you to be covered in… all of this. Just hold still for a moment.”

So he sat there, allowing for his face to be wiped clean – well, almost. This was not how the future Count of Cheydinhal should behave, getting drunk and forcing others to clean up the mess; he suddenly felt very tired. Leaning forward, with his forehead on Bremman’s shoulder, Farwil sighed and closed his eyes. The Imperial stiffened, but then leaned into this contact, bringing his arms around Farwil's shoulders.

“Let’s get some sleep.” He whispered, breaking the hug and taking Farwil’s hand in his.

Bremman led them down to the basement. It was a dark, dusty space, full of clutter and broken objects, likely deserted for many years. His eyes, dulled by tears and inebriation, barely registered the surroundings.

“Shit, there are no torches. I’ll get some from upstairs.” Bremman took a step back, but Farwil squeezed his hand harder.

“No, no light. I just want to sleep.”

There it was, a pile of discarded furs and rags, no doubt an heirloom from the previous owners. They were nothing like the luxurious, fragrant fabrics Farwil was used to, but in this moment looked appealing enough. Bremman was trying to arrange them into something resembling a bedroll.

“I’ll just take two of them and lay them out there, in the corner.” He explained, fussing with the heavy furs. Farwil cleared his throat.

“Sleep next to me. If you don't mind. I don’t want to be alone.”

Silence, then a quiet confirmation. They climbed onto the pile and Bremman wrapped them both in the thickest cover he could find, trying to find a comfortable position. Farwil closed his eyes. The pain of loss didn’t lessen, but it became more bearable. No matter how alone he felt, he wasn’t, not with his friends. Bonds like this were a subject of so many songs and poems, but here they were, in reality.

An image appeared at the edge of his hazed mind. Himself, in a shining armor at the fore of a joyous parade, leading a glorious contingent of knights. Behind him, his closest companions, all clad in ornamented steel, sheathed swords at their hip. He could imagine awestruck faces of the people of Cheydinhal, gazing upon their saviors and protectors, children throwing flowers in their way, the songs and the praises. There was so much good in the world that could be achieved with friends like this.

“I want to be a hero.” He said into the damp air of the cellar, not expecting any answer. It came anyway, from Bremman, half-asleep and digging himself further under the covers.

“Mhm, in the morning.”


	12. Chapter IX

At first it seemed easy. They caught the Daedra unaware; one of the humanoid mages fell to Erik’s axe, and another, one of those that killed Mathis, was cut down by Farwil’s and Valent’s efforts. As much as it pained him to admit it, Bremman was useless in a battle without his sword arm; he served as distraction instead. Still, his Knights were very brave, eager to storm the tower and save Cheydinhal from the Daedric menace. It wasn’t easy, and they lost good friends along the way, but at least their sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain.

But then a tornado rose behind them, crackling with lightning formed inside of its body. Startled, Farwil took a step back. The strange phenomenon has changed shape until it solidified into a giant wrought out of clouds and stones, rushing at them with alarming speed.

Erik was the first to react. He charged, aiming at the Daedra’s head, but it dissolved just before the blade connected; the Nord, unable to stop in time, phased through the creature and stumbled, falling onto the bridge, his axe knocked a few meters away. His foe, corporeal again, turned around, eager to strike the Knight, but Bremman smashed into its side with all his strength; so it was possible to hit it. Valent looked at Farwil, as if waiting for an order. He nodded; they charged simultaneously, trying to take it by surprise.

If the attacks managed to hurt the Daedra, it didn’t show any sign of pain. Erik, who managed to recover his axe, struck again, this time with more success; one of the rocky cores cracked and fell apart. The Nord pushed forward, to the edge of the bridge, and with a wide sweep destroyed another piece. The lightning bolts were weaker now, fading, and the creature started to fall apart. Erik turned to them, a wide smile on his face.

“The ladies are going to love this one!” He exclaimed, shaking his axe with a triumphant mirth.

And then, in a single final swoop, the creature reformed around the Nord, pulling him off the bridge and down below.

Bremman was the first to react, rushing to the edge with an anguished cry. He followed suit, hoping to see the Knight hanging on the ledge or perched on some rock outcropping, but there was nothing there, only a steady stream of lava.

“We cannot even take his medallion.” Bremman was cradling his wounded arm, eyes full of tears. Farwil pulled him away from the lava.

“We will not forget him even without a medallion.” He turned around, just in time to see one of the humanoid creatures encircling Valent from his blind side. “Valent, on your right!”

The Imperial stepped aside, but a moment too late; the Daedra’s sword struck the place where the plate was held together by leather straps. They snapped. With a sickening crunch, the blade went deeper, Valent’s screams turning into gurgles. He fell, sliding down to the ground like a discarded doll. The creature looked at Farwil and raised its bloodied sword in a mocking salute.

They met in the middle of the bridge amidst the clash of blades. In his younger years, Farwil had often sparred with Cheydinhal guards, and that style was similar; the Daedra was fighting like a professional soldier, only faster than any living creature. He parried one strike after another, waiting for an opening, desperately wanting to avenge his friend.

It was the creature who drew the first blood, stabbing the tip of its sword into his shoulder. He had to be quick; every time he raised his shield, his arm lost a bit of strength. He stepped back, gaining distance, and when the enemy followed, struck fast, aiming downwards. The sword bounced off, deflected by armor and leaving him uncovered for just a split second, long enough for the Daedra to slash him across the face.

Pain exploded in the left side of his head just as half of his sight went dark. The shock caused him to drop the sword; he tried to regain footing, but the next blow brought him to his knees, his shield bent and useless. The creature raised its weapon over its head, preparing to strike for the last time...

And then a tip of a sword emerged from its chest. The Daedra dropped its weapon before crumbling down. Farwil looked up; behind it stood Bremman, wielding Valent’s sword in his left hand. He was pale, trembling.

“Farwil, let me see your eye.” The Imperial crouched next to him. Farwil shook his head.

“Help me up, we need to check up on Valent.”

There wasn’t much to check up on. The botanist’s mouth was open wide, red foam bubbling at the corners of his lips. Spasms were contorting his body; it seemed that he wanted to say something, but ruined lungs couldn’t support the sound. Bremman stroke his hair, gently removing matted strands from pale face.

“Shh, Valent, don’t worry. Help is on its way; Jhared is going to be here in a few moments, and with him a contingent of guards and healers.”

Slowly, the Imperial turned to look at Bremman. His face bore an outraged expression as his lips moved to rely the last message.

“Should have drunk that potion.”

And then his head rolled back, spilling blood and last of his tears.

He reached for Valent’s medallion, placed it in his satchel with all the other ones. At the same time, Bremman was looking through the Knight’s supplies. The wineskin was empty and there were only two mysterious vials left. Poor Valent; he had always been thinking about the worst, but even he couldn’t be prepared for that.

A distant noise drew their attention; the gates of the tower have opened, and now more enemies were rushing onto the bridge. Next to him, Bremman sighed. The Imperial grabbed Farwil’s wrist and looked him in the eye.

“Your orders, commander.” He whispered. “I am with you until the end, no matter what you decide.”

It would be heroic to share the fate of their comrades, die with a sword in hand and Cheydinhal in heart. Mathis, Oli, Gerard, Erik and Valent have all fought bravely until their last breath; as his leader, he should be doing the same. Turning back now would seem like a waste, a blemish on the memory of their fellow Knights, a mark of cowardice…

… but Farwil couldn’t send Bremman to death, wounded and unarmed, yet still loyal to a fault.

Resigned, he stood up. “I don’t think they’ve noticed us yet. Let’s regroup at the entrance of the caves and wait.” They could find shelter there, huddled between the taller rocks, hidden from the enemies' eyes.

When they reached a proper spot, he felt all strength draining from his body. Bremman sat right next to him, head bowed low, one good hand curled in his hair. Farwil, too tired to care, leaned on his friend’s shoulder. They waited in silence and heat, draining the rest of water from their wineskins, and when they were empty, sharing the last potions drop by drop.

In the passing hours they tried to assess their wounds. Farwil’s eye was swollen shut, still bleeding, and his leg protested every time he tried to move. He was more worried about Bremman, with his hand trapped in the half-melted steel. Taking off his own gloves first, he propped his injured friend’s arm, pulling as gently as he could; Bremman bit into the cork of an empty potion bottle to stop himself from screaming. After a moment’s resistance the armor slid off and Farwil almost retched.

The hand was red and raw, seeping blood in the points where steel plates have clung to the skin. Bremman’s ring and little finger were gone, reduced to tiny stumps. In some places the flesh was charred, crumbling under Farwil’s touch. He pulled back, not wanting to hurt his friend even more.

“I’m sorry.” He mouthed out. A tear appeared in the corner of Bremman’s eye, so Farwil reached out to wipe it. The Imperial caught the hand on his cheek, pressed it down.

“Years ago you asked me if there was someone I like.” He whispered, barely at the threshold of Farwil's hearing. “I think I should finally give you an answer.”


	13. Chapter XIII

In theory, Bremman shouldn’t be in the Count’s private chambers after nightfall, but nobody paid attention to it. There was nothing suspicious about Lord Indarys’ closest friend and advisor staying the night; they were probably getting drunk just like in good old times.

In practice, he was sitting on the Count’s bed, with the Count’s head in his lap. The Imperial was combing through his hair, smoothing out tangled strands. Tomorrow was a public audience day; Farwil hated those with a burning passion.

“I want to solve their problems, I really do. I just wish someone told the Mages Guild representatives that it is impossible to secure funds in a week, so they shouldn’t be bothering me every Nine-damned Middas.”

“The Rienne Printing House got theirs in, what, five days?”

Farwil narrowed his eyes. “It was a smaller project.”

“Just don’t be surprised when Lady Ottus, the first pen of the Empire, writes about it in her newly updated _Guide to Cheydinhal_.”

He stifled a groan. When the writer asked for an audience with the newly appointed Count, Farwil decided to humor her. He wasn’t prepared for what happened next: a cavalcade of questions concerning his relationship with the Nine, his personal schedule of Chapel attendance and marriage plans. Alessia Ottus somehow learned about his father’s second wedding and was all too curious whether Farwil was going to marry the woman that was supposed to be his stepmother.

“I am planning to marry for love.” He mumbled, trying to cut the interview short. Behind the writer's back, Bremman and Jhared were bent in half from silent laughter.

The issues of his father’s remains and the unknown bride were weighing in the back of his mind. The delegation was supposed to reach Cheydinhal in a few days, and frankly, Farwil wasn’t ready to deal with any of those problems. He wished he could have a few moments of peace, but the problems were piling up one by one and it was slowly becoming unbearable.

A light tap on the nose brought him back. “You’re ruminating again.”

“Of course I am. I am the last person that should be in charge here.”

Bremman sighed and shifted on the bed. He stretched out next to Farwil, looking him in the eye. “There are people who think otherwise. Not me, of course, but there are.”

“Thank you for a glowing display of faith in your partner.”

“You started this.” Bremman turned to the side. “But in all seriousness, you have more supporters than you think. Even my father is one of them.”

That was unexpected. “He is getting softer with age, I suppose.”

“Far from it. I haven’t told you this before – there just wasn’t a good moment – but on the day after Count Andel died I came back home and broke the news. My mother was crying, Rinnie was asking about you, but my father just sat by the fireplace, without a word. When we were left alone, he rose from his chair and asked me ‘Do you trust Farwil Indarys?’”

“What did you say?”

“’No, I hate this deceitful bastard.’” Bremman rolled his eyes. “I told him yes, so he just harrumphed – you know the weird noises he makes when he’s discontent – looked into the fire and said ’I don’t, but he will be a better Count than any of us.’”

Farwil snorted. “And what, just like this? That doesn’t sound like Cassius Senyan I know.”

“He said that not many men would be willing to cast aside what they love the most for the sake of their homeland, but you have already proven capable of it, by leading seven of your best friends to death in order to protect Cheydinhal.” Bremman paused, reaching out to touch Farwil’s face. “He also said he would never put our family in danger, not even for the Empire itself, and now that I think about it, I would rather cut myself into pieces than allow anything to happen to you.”

Eyes closed, Farwil remembered the visit of the Speaker, and cursed inwardly. He groped blindly for Bremman’s hand, the burned one, and pressed it to his lips.

“You know how dear you are to me.” He said, partially to calm his own nerves. “I don’t want to put you in harm’s way.”

“I know, but I’m sure you will, many times. And I don’t mind, on one condition.” Farwil forced his eyes to open. Bremman laced their fingers together, a languid smile on his face. “I don’t need love of the Count of Cheydinhal as long as I have that of Farwil Indarys.”

Farwil wasn’t religious, but this night he made an exception and prayed to the Nine; Alessia Ottus would be proud. He begged not to be forced to choose between a person and a city, two forms of home that somehow couldn’t coexist in harmony; and if one day he had to sacrifice one to save the other, to make the right choice.


End file.
